


Road Music from the Dashboard

by subchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Consensual Somnophilia, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just more nowhere-for-me roads and sunsets pasted onto the backdrop of an orange sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Music from the Dashboard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Cho](http://bossydean.tumblr.com/), who wanted platonic!chesters and everyday touching. This also gave me a proper excuse to write about random moments in time Sam and Dean experience on the road together. It's seriously one of my most favorite things to write.

Sam huffs through his nose, slouching in his seat, and leans his head against the window to watch the scenery streak by in blues and greens, an occasional sign of some tourist trap that’s anything but interesting.

 _“Who’s interested in seeing old breweries?”_ is a thought bouncing around in Sam’s head, heading through some nameless road in Tennessee pulled off some exit from Georgia, and really, nothing’s actually changed, just more broken-down farms overseeing cornfields and wheat fields.

Sam can’t really tell if it’s his legs vibrating from the hum of the Impala, or if it’s his legs cramping from too much time spent in one position, but Sam’s too bored to really protest them, forgetting how little there is to do when he’s traveling with Dean in the Impala.

Sometimes if Dean’s generous enough, he’ll stop the Impala, pull off on the shoulder of some forgotten, cracked highway, and they’ll stretch, they’ll pull out that old green cooler, and they’ll have a beer, and have more time alone together. Maybe if Sam thinks hard enough, it might happen.

It must be one of those days, loud screeching guitar music not enough, it’s certainly enough for Sam after hearing them five times in a row, but Dean’s pulling off on the side of a road that’s abandoned, not likely to have cars passing from here to there.

“C’mon, Sammy, I know that look anywhere,” and it’s all Dean offer before he’s out, the hinges squeak in protest of being moved, and Sam lets out a breath. The sun beats down in Sam’s face as he emerges, sun blindness not a concern as Sam looks at the sun, at the rest of the sky, happy to smell fresh air not through a window.

A clink of beers around the front signals Sam that Dean’s set up, and it’s days like this with a road in front of them leading to from here to nowhere of importance, where there’s no pressure to be anywhere or anywhere, all of it just a calm day with sunlight to highlight the calmness that Sam likes to live for.

As Sam sits on the Impala, his hand seeks out Dean’s, and there’s that twitch in Dean’s figure, the same one that Sam knows is Dean fighting with himself to not pull back, like some random touching is ready to burn his hand away, but he relaxes, he breathes, and like always, has to make some smart ass comment, “didn’t know this was a date, Samantha.”

Sam doesn’t dignify a remark because as much as he knows Dean protests it, he likes it, and there’s no one here to see them, and Sam knows his brother doesn’t really see the need to keep up a front, so Dean allows it, he permits it.

“Shut up, you know you love it anyways.”

And yeah, Dean does.

Not like he’ll admit it, though.

 

\- -

 

Dean normally lets Sam do the shopping because Sam always reasons that Dean’s just going to buy junk food, and Sam is the one to buy all the souvenirs they’ll take for another three state journey because Dean doesn’t like stopping all that often. But today, Sam insisted they stop to do laundry, reasoning, “Dean, those socks are gonna attract ghouls because they’ll mistake it as food.”

Dean mutters some half-assed retort and lets Sam take their clothes out, and disappears inside some laundromat and with nothing else to do, Dean sets to wandering off somewhere nearby, spotting some small convenience store, and hey, Dean ran out of peanut M&Ms two towns back, he might as well stock up.

It’s not any different, the store doesn’t have that distinguishable atmosphere as Dean’s been everywhere, he’s been here and there, everywhere all over the U.S. that it all just blurs together, and Dean doesn’t really notice anything anymore. It all just looks the same, lather, rinse, and repeat.

There’s some chick behind the counter eying him, and he smirks, giving her a leer, but otherwise, he’s not really paying her much attention. There’s an old, decrepit-looking coffee machine that Dean stares at, and he’s pretty sure it’d get a mark on some health inspector’s list, and Dean can see the face Sam would make at it, and it makes him want to get a cup for Sam from it.

He’s got a small hand basket with a bag of M&Ms, a small pack of hot dogs and buns, barbeque chips, a Caesar salad for Sam (hey, he’s generous when he remembers to be), and this small plastic hula hoop girl for the dashboard, gotten on a whim.

Sam’s back at the Impala, unloading their laundry, and he stands when he catches sight of Dean, face curious as Dean comes back with his supplies, and he makes a face, answering with, “I’m a little afraid to see what you live on regularly.”

“Oh, shut it,” Dean mutters, shoving a salad toward Sam, who’s got that shit-eating grin, “aw, Dean, you shouldn’t have,” which just irritates him further.

They slide into the Impala, and Dean reaches into one of the bags to pull out the little hulla girl, turning to Sam to grin, hand reaching out to slap his brother on the shoulder, “gotcha somethin’ when you get bored,” and places it on the dash, continues with, “you can watch her dance around when you’re bored, give you a little idea of all those girls you like to pass up to live celibate.”

Right there is Sam’s bitchface, something Dean won’t admit missing, “how am I supposed to get that idea from a plastic dashboard ornament?”

“Whatever, Sammy.”

Sam retaliates by hitting his shoulder.

 

 

\- -

 

 

“Come on, Dean you passed by the last exit for a motel,” and a yawn interrupts Sam’s words, “just pull over, we can sleep in the car.”

Half past one in the morning heading south since eleven in the morning yesterday, and Sam’s ready to stop, ready to go to sleep, but Dean’s a stubborn idiot, and Sam’s gotten used to going to sleep earlier in his college years (no, stop, don’t think about that) and he often forgets Dean could do this for days with little sleep in between.

Dean sighs, doesn’t actually make a move to stop the car, but seven miles down the road, he’s coming to a stop on the shoulder of the road, parks the Impala before shifting her off before he opens the door to go to the trunk. Sam gets up briefly to stretch his legs, bends his back, standing back up to see Dean pull out some blankets from the trunk.

They both slide back inside, Dean passing a blanket to Sam and they both try to get comfortable, trying to not complain too much about the lack of space—even though Sam hates those random motels barely above two stars, he’d kill to have a bed that could at least accommodate most of his legs, even if Sam’s feet would hang off the edge.

Sam’s knee bumps against Dean’s thigh, trying to fit himself right, Dean’s hand brushes against Sam’s arm in shifting the blankets, and they keep doing this dance around the other to fit themselves in this confined space of limbs and hands and too-long legs until Sam rolls his eyes, and a low, “Dean,” makes Dean glance over at him.

A hand reaches out to Dean, Sam making a ‘come here’ gesture with his fingers as Dean eyes him suspiciously.

“Dean, come on—” and he’s shifting again, enough to lean over as Dean lets out a warning in the form of Sam’s name but Sam ignores it, reaching with grasping fingers, slides them around Dean’s neck to pull him towards Sam, and like always when they’re in situations like this, Dean resists, sets a line to his mouth, “Sam, you know we don’t do th—”

Dean always tries to feign that grumpy resistance, like he has to prove that he’s not really into this.

Sam knows him too well to see past it.

“It’s either this or cramp up,” and it’s the right answer, at least, when Dean is too tired to really contemplate ways to get out of it, as Sam knows Dean could, but at least Dean is more plaint this time which means he must be really tied, and Sam shifts, moves his body to accommodate Dean’s shifting, and Sam leans against the window with Dean’s body laying against his own.

“One word about this in the morning and I’ll throw you out the car at full speed,” but it doesn’t stop Sam from giggling as Dean turns his head into Sam’s neck, Dean nuzzling it as subtly as he can get away with.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Dean knows it’s there, crouched low in the back of Sam’s mind, waiting, abiding its time for them to go back to normal, come off the road streaked with never-ending worn yellow lines to finally rear its nasty head to fuck with the order he and Sam can barely establish.

Dean’s always been a light sleeper, enough that a single sound will lift him from his slumber, hand already on the knife waiting under his pillow (Sam calls it paranoia, Dean calls it being prepared), already assessing the situation.

But there’s that choked breath, a labored breathing before a small whimper forces itself into the clear night air of the motel room with nothing to distract the inhabitants from. It’s that small noise, that really wrong sound, which has Dean upward, searching for the source of that sound before his gaze lands on the other bed.

Sam’s curled in on himself, hands in his hair, eyes squeezed shut, and he looks like he’s trying to control himself, trying to keep himself from making too much sound but Dean’s already on his feet, crouching in front of Sam’s bed, a hand placed on Sam’s shoulder, noting it to be shaking, repeating Sam’s name lowly to not startle Sam.

It’s not working as Sam tries to curl into himself more, tries to hide from what’s going on in his head, and Dean isn’t going let it go on.

He tries to roll Sam over, get Sam to wake up, giving his younger brother a shake, trying to rouse Sam from those dreams he thinks Dean doesn’t know anything about, streaked with blond hair covered in bright orange flames, which would make Sam an idiot if he thinks he can keep this from Dean, which causes Dean to roll his eyes, but it’s not really fitting for this situation.

Dean’s got his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pulls him into a sitting position, and a hard, “Sam!” coming from Dean is enough to wake Sam, a gasp on his lips as Sam opens his eyes, and there’s that moment where everything is left unguarded, left bare, too much for Sam’s sleep-heavy mind to catch and pull down, to stop Dean from worrying about him.

It’s almost crushing, the weight of all that passes through Sam’s eyes.

In that moment, all of the resistance and stubbornness and essentially _Sam_ falls away in the darkness of the motel as Sam’s eyes look at Dean and it’s like Sam isn’t really Sam anymore, but this nine-year-old looking at Dean like his world has been shattered and he just wants Dean to make it okay, and Sam’s voice is small, almost-strangled breaks on Dean’s name.

Dean breaks from Sam’s gaze, removing his hand from Sam’s shoulders, and Sam reaches out in response, the way he used to when there wasn’t a wall of emotions blocking Sam from seeking comfort from Dean. The older brother moves, the bed dipping in response to Dean’s body settling over it, forcing Sam to move since his brother won’t make any conscious effort, and Dean settles them both hack against the bed.

Dean wraps Sam in his arms, presses Sam to his chest, chin resting on top of Sam’s hair, stray pieces poking him in the neck, and there’s Sam’s delayed response, finally coming into awareness, burying his face into Dean’s neck, trying to make himself small as possible, hands coming up to grip Dean’s shirt.

“Must’ave been a bad one,” Dean tries, needing to lighten the mood, at least get Sam out of this mentality, but adds, “’m here, Sam, ‘m here,” and hoping Sam can hear him.

He knows it’s a far stretch, but Dean tries with, “you can tell me about it later, just go back to sleep Sam. I’ll be here,” and sure, he’s violating a lot of rules he’s set for himself, sort of hoping that Sam might tease him for giving him comfort, but it’s not really a first world problem for Dean.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Sam’s visions splits in two, scenery blurs into streaks of color highlighted gold with the evening sun, and he’s rubbing his eyes, blinking, yawning, and Sam doesn’t know how long he’s gonna stay awake.

They’ve been on the road since last minute checkout at this middle-of-nowhere hotel, slipping out the window to avoid angry owners, and it’s been since two forty-five in the afternoon on the road, Dean bitching about leaving behind his favorite pair of socks.

He drifts in and out—there’s not much to look at, all the same scenery, the same cows in a pasture, the same mile markers placed on the same side of the road, and Sam doesn’t know how much will he has left to care about staying awake. There’s those food and gas signs that pop up against the scenery of uninteresting, and sometimes Dean pointing out the local tourist attractions, but Sam just shakes his head, tells Dean they’re better in idea than real life.

“You really know how to have fun, spoilsport.”

Fifteen more miles down the road when Sam’s head jerks back, realizing he was dozing again, wiping his eyes again, repeating his actions every time he slips under wanting to nap.

The road dips and lifts, flattens and raises again, the lands seemingly going along with it, and Sam is so bored as he’s running on a very limited attention span. It’s just this formless shape that if Sam thinks about it, he could reach out and grasp it; could mold it into anything he wants, like clay waiting for him to shape.

“Sam.”

Sam glances at Dean, attention briefly restored, and Dean looks at him shortly, an eyebrow raised, “come on, Sam, just—” and he’s reaching one hand up, slides it across the top of the seat, and grips at Sam’s neck, hand briefly in Sam’s hair, stroking, before he pulls Sam to him, and Sam’s sleepy enough to not really fight against it.

Dean’s thigh is firm beneath Sam’s head, and Dean’s hand comes to rest on top of Sam’s head, fingers scratching lightly on Sam’s scalp, threading through his hair, and Dean’s low voice saying, “just take a nap, Sam. You make me wanna take one with how much you want one. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

There are four states between there and where they’re here, there’s not much to worry about.

 

 

\- -

 

 

There’s some carnival at the end of the town they work a case for, and Dean’s too enthusiastic about hairy corndogs and week old cotton candy and all other kinds of carnival food Sam frowns at, and Dean constantly elbowing Sam in the side, trying to get his attention with whatever hot girl Dean finds, and Sam giving him a bland stare with, “yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s a got a kid here, Dean,” which causes Dean to make a face at him.

They spend time walking around, Dean making it a mission to try all of the food available with Sam making comments about how terrible the food is, which is what Dean could go without, seriously, and Dean trying to goad Sam into playing some carnival games, but as always, Sam is a spoilsport.

“Dean, we’re not gonna blow laundry money on you wanting to beat some dumb carnival record.”

“Why do I even take you anywhere?” is followed by Dean making a sour face.

“’Cause you suck when it comes to responsibilities.”

“Nice to know you’re related to me.”

Dean huffs, stepping away from the booth of the latest game he wanted to play, and he notices Sam isn’t walking with him, so Dean’s turning around with the words, “hurry up, Sam!” when all words disintegrate on his tongue, staring at Sam as he hasn’t moved from the same spot, this look on his face that alerts Dean immediately.

He’s following Sam’s line of sight, past the heads of dozens of children and—

Oh.

_Oh._

Dean wants to smirk, crack a joke about it, just something to lighten the mood, but he can’t, not with Sam there, looking like a deer in the headlights, because not twenty feet away is a laughing, happy, care free-looking clown.

Dean wants to tease Sam about it, he wants to get Sam to break from that look, and he wants Sam to do something other than stare at it, rooted to the spot, mouth agape, and just ready to bolt. However, Dean thinks about how Sam treated his fear of flying, how freakin’ supportive he was (and the hand holding, which though Dean found comforting, and fuck you, he doesn’t wanna talk about it) that by principle, Dean can’t really make fun of it.

“Hey, Sam,” he tries when he’s finally standing next to his brother, still frozen, that look of panic cutting through harsher up close, and Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, feels the muscles tense and locked, and Dean tries for something else, taking a breath because it’s seriously gonna turn him into a girl, and slides his fingers between Sam’s own, wrapping around Sam’s longer, but slimmer fingers, tugging on his hand, and it’s the right thing to get Sam to respond.

Dean takes over leading Sam away, enough space between them and that clown here Sam loosens up, breathes out stronger, and is in the process of collecting himself when Dean asks, “hey, Sam, you alright?”

And Sam tries to seem alright, tries to smile but falls flat, “yeah, ‘m good, I’m fine,” but the way Sam breathing, he’s far from it.

Dean is acutely aware of other people looking at that, glances at their joined hands which causes Dean to try to separate their hands, but Sam’s fingers tighten, telling the older man he’s not ready for the contact to be broken, he needs a little more time.

As much as Dean likes to project about this sort of contact (especially when there’s people around), he lets Sam take his time, keeps holding his hand, and if Dean slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders, it’s just because he’s comforting Sam.

Not… cuddling in public.

 

 

\- -

 

 

Mid-afternoon spent secluded at the rear end inside a motel in room 112, not likely to be noticed or bothered by people, and it makes the perfect place to lounge all day, the only thing changing are one-off cars and trucks passing down the road outside this near middle-of-nowhere motel.

Dean’s chin is pressed against Sam’s chest, legs thrown over Sam’s own, tangled around blankets that have seen one too many washes, and the world outside could drop dead as long as they don’t have to move from the bed, a lazy day spent in bed far too in between tires trailing across the road and cases with people meddling in supernatural things they shouldn’t.

It’s a nice moment.

And it’s Sam that shifts first, a yawn pulling him above the dream layer in his mind, shifting, feeling the weight of Dean’s head on his chest, and Sam smiles, knowing if Dean saw this, he’d try to put a stop to it.

Sam lets out a soft laugh at how anti-cuddling Dean is.

There’s wetness between his legs that’s almost dried, an ache in his ass that decides to remind him what he planned to do this morning, and a small smirk travels across his face.

With as little movement as possible, he’s shifting, Sam’s pulling himself to the side to where the nightstand is, longer fingers reaching for the lube, knowing any moment Dean could wake, the fucking light sleeper he is, trying to not move his fingers a wrong way and knock the bottle to the ground—that’d certainly put a dent in Sam’s plans.

He’s sliding his back slowly against the bed, feeling the springs digging into his back (problems of using backwoods motels with little care to replace old-as-fuck mattresses), blankets tugging from where they’re trapped between his and Dean’s bodies pulling. Dean snorts in his sleep and it’s causing Sam to freeze, biding his time until Dean settles down, moving to get comfortable again, and it gives Sam enough room to move.

Fingers barely wrapping around the bottle, Sam tugs it back, grinning, swiping the hair from his eyes before settling back into position. Cap flipped open, Sam tries to be generous with the amount coating his fingers, swirling it between his fingers to warm it up, and he’s turning over to face Dean, moving the blanket to expose Dean’s backside, and with a determined look on Sam’s face, eyebrows scrunching together to concentrate, Sam starts trailing his fingers to Dean’s ass.

The younger male tries to be as gentle as possible, hoping Dean won’t wake up, and Sam slips his fingers between Dean’s cheeks, lube smearing against the skin, and touches against Dean’s hole. Sam swirls his fingers in circular motions, touch gentle, and a small sound escapes through Dean’s nose; and Sam pauses until he feels Dean settling again.

Sam presses a finger against Dean’s hole, rubs gently, gives enough pressure to feel it twitch, and gets another finger to rub in time. Slowly, Sam gives a little more pressure, the tip of his pointer finger breaching, retreating, and pressing back inside, retreating again to rub around Dean’s hole again, slick with enough lube for an easy slide.

Dean’s breathing picks up against Sam’s chest, and Sam grins, knowing Dean’s reacting to it, leisurely but surely. It’s not often Dean is compliant and unaware, and it’s just so adorable and cute—Sam can practically hear Dean’s frown if he said that out loud—that Sam can’t help but take advantage of it.

Besides, Sam can blame this on Dean’s fondness of morning sex, so it’s no harm, no foul.

Sam’s pressing his finger in again, slowly thrusting in deeper when he feels Dean’s muscles give way, and fuck, it’s so warm inside, this velvet grip around his finger, and it makes Sam want to thrust his finger in, feel just how hot Dean is inside, but he restrains, pulls himself back. Sam makes circular motions with his finger, tries to relax the muscles around it, and gets buried to the second knuckle.

There’s this motion in Dean’s hips starting up, lazily grinding against Sam’s hip, a slight push back against Sam’s finger. Sam tries for two fingers, pressing his middle one beside the other, pushing past the light resistance of Dean’s hole, pressing in to the second knuckle which Sam uses to stroke in time with his other finger.

Deans breathing is quicker, and Sam knows that his brother is close to waking up if the movement of his hips mean anything, which causes Sam to move his fingers faster, pushes them in and out faster, rubbing against the areas he knows Dean likes, trying to find Dean’s prostate as best as he can.

And bingo ‘cause Dean’s body tenses, a harsh breath punching from Dean’s awakening body, his brother’s eyes fluttering open, a moan coming out of Dean’s mouth before he registers anything.

“Damn, Sammy, couldn’t wait, could’ya?” smears across Sam’s chest, warm and rough, and Sam chuckles in response.

“Guess who I learned it from in the first place?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just keep going—” and a grunt cuts Dean’s voice off, slowly moving his hips back, pressing Sam’s fingers deeper as Sam begins to move his fingers in earnest, faster, speeding up the way he knows Dean likes it. Sam tries for another, pressing against his other fingers, fucking them in and out of Dean’s loosening hole, brushing over Dean’s prostate every so often.

“Yeah, like that, just like that,” comes roughened from Dean’s mouth, his hand finding Sam’s hair, tugging on it to let Sam know he wants a kiss and Sam gladly goes with it, mouth sliding hotly over Dean’s, feeling Dean’s fingers flex in his hair, Dean’s tongue sliding over Sam’s bottom lip, taking it between his teeth before letting it go to shove his tongue into Sam’s mouth.

Sam continues to drive his finger in faster, swirling them, pulling them out to circle Dean’s hole, feeling the tremble of Dean’s lets, knowing Dean losing his control which drives the younger man to employ all the tricks his sleepy brain can think of. Dean’s hard against Sam’s hip, smearing precum against the sleepy-warm skin, and Sam’s moving his other free hand to encircle Dean’s cock, thumb finding the wet head and pressing, going back to stroking his brother until Dean’s a symphony of moans and grunts and all kinds of pleasant noises trailing over Sam’s skin.

“Fuck, just—c’mon, Sam, need more,” and Sam knows what Dean wants, takes his fingers out to reach for the lube he discarded beside him, Dean moving to sit up a little, watching as Sam squirts more lube onto his hand, continues to watch as Sam slicks his dick, hissing as he had almost forgotten his own arousal, and lets Dean move back into place.

Dean’s straddling Sam’s waist, knees on either side, feeling the tip of Sam’s dick pressing against his hole and unhurriedly sits down, lets Sam sink inside him, feels the stretch burn through him, the sensation of Sam filling him, and Sam resists wanting to thrust completely up.

Dean has his hips pressed against Sam’s waist, breathing slowly, Sam’s hands coming to rest on Dean’s waist, and, “Dean, you okay?” muttered softly from Sam’s lips, thumbs rubbing gently around his brother’s hipbones, reassuring as Dean gets himself together.

Dean’s answer is to lift his hips up and slamming them back down, punching a groan from Sam’s throat, hands tightening on Dean’s hips as Dean begins to move, setting this quick pace, moans falling from his mouth, not caring if there are people next door because that’s Dean’s thing, still that cocky kind of asshole with no regard for other people having to listen to him fucking or getting fucked.

Sam’s caught up in the tight heat of Dean’s body, that slick warmth around his cock enough to make Sam lose focus of anyone else in the rooms next door, enough so that he doesn’t notice Dean’s hands on his own, grasping them and pulling them away as Dean leans forwards to pin the bed, rising up on his knees to ride Sam the way Dean wants.

“Dean—” Sam tries, knowing Dean’s in that kind of mood, but that fucking smirk is in place, Dean lifting his hips slowly, moving in figure eights, a throaty, “wha’s a matter, Sammy?” and god, Dean at it again.

“Come on, not now—”

“I’m drivin’, cowboy.”

Dean’s lifting his hips again, slowly, almost to a point where the head of Sam’s cock is in him before sitting back down, Sam’s back arching as pleasure travel up his spine. He could get out of this hold, easily buck Dean off and pin his brother to the bed, fuck Dean into the mattress until his brother only knows Sam’s knows his name, but with Dean in this kind of mood, he’d rather sit back and let Dean control this.

“Yeah, fuck yes,” and all kinds of other shortened phrases fall from Dean’s lips, good feeling encasing his body, dulling his awareness to other things which causes his hold to loosen on Sam’s wrists.

Sam’s moving them; breaking Dean’s hold but Dean doesn’t mind, or care, and Sam’s hands are back on Dean’s waist, helping Dean to fuck himself on Sam’s dick.

Because it’s when they’ve first woken up that there’s little care to hold back, to race to the finish line, and Sam bucks his hips up faster, harder, slapping his waist against Dean’s ass, trying to get as deep as he possibly can into Dean, and that tighter clench that happens is when Sam knows he’s hit that spot, keeping his hips angled in that position to drive Dean past there breaking point.

Dean’s body is a heaving mass of muscles, concaving and flattening with every breath that flies past his lips, sweat forming and rolling down the skin that Sam wants to lean in and bite, get his teeth over to mark up, but he’s too far gone to really care about anything other than finishing.

Dean’s hand is fisting himself, moving in time with Sam’s thrusts, head thrown back, and Sam’s hands are tightening on Dean’s hips, and low noises of, “come on, Dean, fuck yourself on my dick, like that, wanna see you come,” just falling from Sam’s mouth. He’s going to be embarrassed of it later, as dirty talk isn’t something Sam does, and Dean’s gonna rib him about it for the rest of the day, but it’s one of Dean’s favorite things when Sam gets caught up in the moment.

It’s when Dean hunches over, breath stuttering, the squeeze around Sam’s dick tightening, catching Sam off guard that Dean is coming, shoots hot all over Sam’s chest. Sam pushes his hips up, fucking into that tightened heat around him, helping to milk all of Dean’s orgasm to its fullest.

Sam’s gut clenches; it takes a few more thrusts for Sam to come, groaning, panting, releasing into Dean’s slick channel, back arching, and Dean’s eyes on him.

Dean’s rolling off him before Sam has any idea of anything outside his own orgasm, catches the winces Dean gives before he’s side by side with Sam, both of them settling in to bask in post-orgasm bliss.

“We should do this more often,” Dean remarks after a while, breathing still winded.

 “Yeah, well,” Sam tries, gathering more breath, “you’re always wanting to check out early, getting back in the road as soon as possible.”

“Next time, more morning sex, then,” and there’s that infuriating grin again, “and damn, Sammy, didn’t know you were a freak in the morning,” and Sam wants to hide his face in the pillow.

“Oh, shut up, Dean, you do it all the time.”

“But you’re always too much of a prude to do anything like this. What prompted you this time?”

Sam just swats Dean with a pillow, feeling that post-orgasm wear off into sleepy contentment, rolling over to press his face into Dean’s neck, already anticipating Dean’s protest of, “Sam, can we not—” with, “oh, shut up, ‘m tired. You can fuck me when we wake up, wanna go back to sleep.”

Sam thinks he can hear Dean’s eye roll but doesn’t protest further.


End file.
